


But Magic By Another Name

by thefrogg



Series: Metaphysical Engineering [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bonding, Clint Barton is a BAMF, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Metaphysical Disability, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Possible Issues of Non-Sexual Consent, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Stark Feels, Tony has more issues than the Library of Congress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's never been a matter of desire.  But he can't say that, and they can't, or won't see that, until it's almost too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [all this devotion (i never knew at all)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/710659) by [Carthage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carthage/pseuds/Carthage). 



"I got here as fast as I could." Pepper keeps her voice as comforting as she can, but there's nothing she can do about the sound of her heels tap-tap-tapping on the linoleum floor. It's grating even on her own nerves.

It's been hours, but the Avengers - minus Iron Man, minus _Tony -_ didn't show it. They're all still in costume, still covered in sweat and soot and grime. Tears.

Steve straightens a little, looking up at her with eyes full of impotent fury and self-loathing, gloved hands fisting at his sides and aching for the shield. Thor pushes away from the wall; Clint perches on the back of Natasha's chair, tightens his hand on her shoulder. She barely blinks, her hands buried in Bruce's curls where he slumps against her as if exhausted.

Pepper knows better from the sheen of green on exposed skin, neck and hand, the brilliance of it in his eyes as he glances up.

There's still blood under Bruce's nails, caked on Thor's breastplate, soaking the trailing edge of his cape.

Tony's blood.

"I'll see what I can find out," she offers, breaking the guilty silence.

~~~

"We thought you should know..." Clint lets his voice fade. The uncertainty in his posture is unexpected; the way his hand brush Natasha's, fingers weaving together instinctively, much less so. The team's been living together for almost three weeks.

Natasha's muttered Russian doesn't need translation. "We're bonded Doms."

Steve says nothing, letting that knowledge settle. "And Phil?" Because Clint had been _frantic--_

Clint flinches, drops his gaze. "That's--in the immortal word of Facebook, complicated."

 _You were afraid you'd flip sub to his Dom, you mean,_ Steve hears instead. It wasn't common, but it happened. Clint was so close to the edge it was probably what had allowed the two to operate so smoothly for as long as they had. "You can obviously work together."

"Yes." Natasha's answer is simple, straightforward. Clint seems content to let her take the lead. "It hasn't happened - yet - but eventually, someone will try and attack us--"

"Through our mindscapes, yes, that was a concern with the Commandos." Steve keeps his face carefully blank at the mention, though he has no doubt that they can read the stab of pain just the same. "You want to--"

"Familiarity, that's all."

Steve keeps his eyes on Natasha's as Clint ducks, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "You sure you--"

"Yeah, I'm just." Clint drops his arm to his side and blows out a noisy breath of air. "I'm okay with this."

Steve nods and gets to his feet glancing between the two consideringly before holding a hand out to Natasha. Touch wasn't necessary, but this--

Natasha's grip is cool and firm and callused against his own, and the world fades out.

Steve doesn't even have time to form a basic impression before it hits. The twist and slide of mindscapes re-aligning themselves, the oversensitive pleasurable shiver of thin shields layering over one another is strange to Steve, distantly familiar to Natasha, to Clint, whose startled laughter they can hear at a distance.

Missing pieces locking together, but still not whole.

~~~

"I'm sorry, ma'am, at this point all I can tell you is that no news is good news."

Pepper had figured as much, has to carry the news back to the team, that and the _only_ good news is that there _is_ no news, and to hope for no news for another ten hours, minimum.

Not with the kind of injuries Tony came in with.

It doesn't stop the looks of guilt and shame and helplessness, doesn't keep Bruce from hunching further into himself, Clint's knuckles from whitening on Natasha's shoulder.

"We weren't here," Steve whispers, eyes bleak before he loses his nerve.

"You couldn't be." Pepper keeps her calm by the faintest of margins, but it is true; Tony had been in Chicago on business when reports of the attack had come in. The rest of the team had had to fly from New York City.

~~~

Bruce had been amenable, but nervous enough to want precautions; locking himself in Hulk's room with Thor is enough.

Thor can handle Hulk.

It's a strange, and strangely welcome discovery when Bruce slots in neatly, his own mental shields sliding into place.

What's stranger is the fact that his inner self isn't something unfamiliar, but simply the Hulk, scared and angry and soothed instantly by Clint's half-hysterical laughter.

~~~

The television showed lines of civilians chatting amiably, some with clipboards in hand; others wearing uniforms from a half dozen restaurants passed out bagged or boxed meals, bottled water.

~~~

The only thing surprising about Thor is that his inner self matches his outer.

~~~

Natasha draws Bruce to his feet, gentle hands soothing Hulk beneath his skin. Clint follows behind, as she leads them to the Bond-suite's shower, piles their clothes haphazardly in the corner, rubs soapy hands over slick skin.

The blood beneath Bruce's nails refuses to wash away entirely; a ripple of greening muscle leads to soft kisses too fraught with fear and grief lead to anything.

~~~

For Tony, the news sinks in over a snifter of single malt. "Five Dominants. Huh." He swirls the alcohol in its glass once, then throws it back and sets the glass gently on the counter. "Congratulations." There is more warmth in his voice, but it's a clear deflection.

"We would like--" Natasha starts, when the others are confused between accepting Tony's well-wishes and trying to explain.

"I'm happy for you, I really am," Tony starts, cutting Natasha's request off. "That doesn't mean I want to join in."

"We just want to be able to protect you, that's all," Steve says calmly, finding his voice.

One corner of Tony's mouth quirks up in a smile. "That's one protection I don't need, Cap," and he gives Steve a light back-of-the-hand tap on the arm as he rounds the end of the counter. "I've got work to do, the armor won't repair itself."

~~~

There's fresh clothes outside, and Agent Coulson with hot coffee and cold soda and buckets of fried chicken, steaming biscuits and mashed potatoes and corn on the cob. Steve and Thor are already demolishing their own dinners, but it's all too obvious it's more out of a methodical necessity than actual enjoyment.

"Eat," Coulson says, pressing a plate into Clint's hands, staring until Clint sits down and swallows nausea borne of guilt.

They have to keep their strength up.

~~~

The Tower becomes a haven for them; it's not uncommon to find two (or more) Avengers slumped against one another, Clint draped over Thor's shoulder or half wrapped around Natasha. Steve bumps shoulders, leans instead of looms (Thor's the one that does _that,_ god that he is). Natasha's gestures are smaller, rarer, more precious for it, a brush of fingers when handing over weapons or a cup of tea, the bowl of popcorn while watching a movie.

Home becomes safe, guarded by JARVIS and the best security money can't buy and their own precautions and ingrained paranoia; the need to hide themselves from each other lessens.

Even, no, _especially_ around Tony, who doesn't have the right, the privilege of knowing when a nightmare hits because they share mental space as well as physical, when some minor trigger has one of them on edge.

Tony's handsy anyways, at least with people he likes, or wants to like.

It helps close the gap being the only one not bonded creates, but not enough.

Not when mental intimacy leads all too soon to physical, intimacy Tony won't share in any more than he will the mental.

~~~

"It's been going on seven hours now since Tony Stark - Iron Man - was rescued and taken to Barnes-Jewish Hospital here in St. Louis, and there's been no word of his condition, or even his continued survival. One can only hope the lack of an announcement means he's still alive."

~~~

"Don't tell me you weren't interested, Tony, I _saw_ the expression on your face," Steve says, sounding more hurt than insulted.

No, there's definite insult in there, but from what, Tony's not sure. "I'm a living, breathing person, Steve, what did you expect? I live with some of the most attractive people on the planet, and seeing the three of you all half-naked and sweaty and--Yes, I was interested. That doesn't mean I'm going to assume I have any right to join in just because you feel comfortable enough to--"

"We wanted you to."

There's a half-second of poisonous silence before Tony's glass shatters against the far wall. "I do not need a pity-fuck, damnit. Yes, I was a slut, but I haven't had so much as a one-night stand since before Afghanistan. It's not worth it. It's not--" Tony can't finish, can't even meet Steve's eyes as he leaves the room.

He will not reduce himself to team whore.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve and Thor leave behind a small mountain of debris from dinner, buckets of chicken bones and empty styrofoam containers. Steve tries to clean it up, only to be shooed off by a junior agent whose name escapes him; it is but another defeat, minor though it is, and he can't stop the tears that pool before they get the shower running.

Thor's breastplate is heavy enough to make Steve grunt as he helps ease it to the floor. "I don't know how you wear that thing--"

"Captain. Steve." Thor's voice is soft, deep as his hands close on Steve's shoulders, stop the inane attempt at self-distraction. "Do you truly think I would think less of you for grief? I was _here,_ beloved, and I was still too late."

Steve finds it too hard just to breathe; he still hides his eyes, turns away as much as Thor will allow as his armor is stripped, piece by piece. 

Once in the shower though, once his tears will wash away as soon as he lets them fall, he cannot stop his knees from hitting the floor. 

Thor tangles strong fingers in Steve's hair as he clutches at strong thighs, presses a stubbly cheek to the crease of hip and groin; there will be a red blush of beard burn there, or would be, if he had not been Thor.

Steve cries himself out, lets Thor's Norse prayers cover the sound of his own gasping sobs, pleas for forgiveness; he can only nod in silent acceptance as they don fresh clothing at Thor's quiet reassurance.

The words, Thor's _"I do not follow orders from the unworthy,"_ follow them back to the waiting room.

~~~

It takes every ounce of self control Tony has in his possession not to scrub at his eyes, but he manages; he's had grease, and soot, and other unmentionable materials in his eyes before, and it is far from pleasant. All he wants is a shower, and perhaps a nap - he's far from exhausted, but his body isn't what it had been a decade ago.

Fatigue and distraction are enough to propel him from the workshop.

"--sure he has his reasons," Clint's voice drifts through an open doorway.

"If he'd say what those reasons _were--"_ Steve's words are sharp with frustration.

Breath shudders in Tony's lungs. _'Unexpected results, my tin-plated ass,'_ he manages not to say, forcing himself past the rec room.

"Playback, JARVIS." Tony rests his forehead against the tile wall, smearing soot and smoothy and god knows what else got thrown into the mix with hands and hair. Hot water cascades over sore shoulders, but it will take more than water to wash away the evidence.

"Are you certain, sir?"

"Just play it." There is a note of defeat in his voice, not drowned out by the sound of water hitting tile and skin, metal and glass.

 _"Privacy isn't enough?"_ Clint is gently mocking.

Tony doesn't know if he could have managed that.

_"Tony's on the front page of every newspaper whenever anything remotely related to him happens. It's not like he's--"_

_"Not like he_ has _any, is it?"_ Natasha, infinitely gentle. Patience of this kind is not something Tony would have expected of her, but here it is.

 _"I do not like this,"_ Thor rumbles with a gravity that belies the clear skies outside. _"He is pulling away from us--"_

 _"Because we're pushing him into things he's not comfortable with."_ Clint again, sharp with agitation. _"He's happy for us--"_

 _"He says he's happy for us."_ Bruce is barely audible, even with JARVIS' pickups. 

The implication that Bruce thinks Tony's _lying_ hits like a fist in the gut, and Tony gasps out a sob.

_"Has anyone else noticed that he hasn't been sleeping around since before Afghanistan, or is it just me and my oh-so-perfect vision? He doesn't play those games any more, he said he can protect himself, and he shouldn't be pushed into things he's not willing to do just to satisfy our curiosity."_

_"It's not curiosity. It's not--we're a unit, we're_ supposed _to be a team, and he's not--there's a distance between us now that there wasn't before, a distance us bonding put there."_

_"Was it bonding that put it there, or us asking for access he's not willing to offer? Or how about us throwing live porn in his face? I knew that was a bad idea--see aforementioned lack of playboy tendencies since Afghanistan."_

"Clint, you're my hero," Tony whispers into the rush of water.

_"Don't tell me you didn't have fun."_

_"Nat, I always have fun when it's you, but I saw the look on his face when he left. That is not the look of someone who wants to have something he can't have rubbed in his face,"_ and the acid's gone, faded to disappointment and regret.

 _"Can't have,"_ Bruce murmurs.

 _"You know something."_ Natasha picks up on it too, jumps all over it.

_"I know we're five bonded Doms in a world where two are unusual and three rarer than hen's teeth. I know Tony says he can defend himslf, I know he's bent over backwards to make us comfortable here, builds and improves our weapons and armor and gear. I know he has precious little privacy as it is, and he's not willing to give up what little he has for people he barely knows."_

_"That's not what I mean and you know it, Clint."_

_"Have the rest of you even thought about it?"_ Clint sounds disgusted.

 _"I can think of little else."_ Thor's discontent is palpable.

Several minutes go buy in a silence drowned out by water before Clint answers. _"Know something, no. But there are only so many reasons for someone to_ not _want a bond, and none of them are good. And none of them --_ none _of them -- are reasons we've earned the right or the trust to know."_

_"Tony trusts us."_

_"To watch his back. In battle. Physically speaking, he trusts us. Emotionally?"_ There's a heavy pause before Clint continues. _"He's made his boundaries clear, and we've done nothing but stomp all over them. That's not how you earn someone's trust, Steve. Not the kind of trust you're looking for."_

"That's enough," Tony whispers, then again, louder, as Steve starts to answer, words Tony doesn't want to hear. He'd thought--

It doesn't matter what he thinks. Friendship, loyalty, it's not going to be enough. Not for the team, not for the Avengers.

And Tony can't give them more than that.

~~~

Hospital vending machine coffee is vile, as it always is. Pepper takes one tiny sip and wrinkles her nose before dismissing it altogether; a short phone call and twenty minutes later, a pair of interns from the local SI offices appears with trays of the best coffee downtown has to offer and pastries to accompany.

~~~

Tony ignores the stilted awkwardness of the next few days, the half-started apologies; acknowledging anything wrong will start a dialogue he has no desire to partake in.

Instead, he locks himself in his workshop, again, nothing unusual except his focus on Clint's gear, new arrows, better materials for armor.

Locks is probably the wrong term to use, since meals show up on his workbench at regular intervals. Fresh coffee. Grilled cheese with bacon. Ham and swiss on rye. Bruce appears to invite him to team dinner, no refusals accepted.

Steve curls up on the couch with his sketchpad and a handful of pencils; Natasha takes his place silently, cleaning her guns, sharpening her knives with a degree of efficiency that Tony can't help but admire.

If Tony ignores them, talks to Dummy and You and Butterfingers and JARVIS, shows off the elegance of hands and gesture and technology, everything he has and can't offer the team, well.

That's between him and the hollow ache in the back of his mind.

~~~

There are too many red-rimmed eyes, dry though they are. Too many hands that shake, visible only in the way fists are clenched, shoulders and arms and wrists gripped too hard for the tremors to actually show.

~~~

"Quit stalking me and get down here," Tony calls, waiting for the change in atmosphere to herald Clint's drop from the vent. "You do realize that the stalking thing is rather creepy."

"You're the one who designed the vents." Clint's calm, nonchalant in his answer.

"So I did. That's for you," and Tony jerks his head to one side, indicates a table out of the way of his normal workstation. He pointedly doesn't watch as Clint glances between himself and the spread of gear, the arrows and bow case and other boxes.

It doesn't matter; Tony can see enough in the reflections off the glass wall, see Clint tracing an arrow shaft with one finger, undo latches and prop up a lid.

"You usually rotate, you don't do whole sets like this."

"Nope," Tony agrees, making the p sound pop. "Figured I'd see how things fit together differently. Try it out, tell me what you think, what I need to change. You know," and he shrugs.

He can feel Clint staring at him, see the curiosity, the wariness staring back at him from the half-translucent pane across from him.

There's a shaky sigh from behind him. "You don't--you didn't have to do this."

Tony says nothing, but can't stop the minute flinch at the hand on his shoulder. It stays, fingertips digging in slightly, until Tony bows his head, swipes at weary eyes with one hand.

"Barney and I weren't the only runaways the circus took in," Clint says, voice low, almost a whisper.

It's Tony's turn to let out a shaky breath. By the time he's steadied himself, Clint's gone. The table where his new gear had been is empty.

~~~

 **@VirginiaPotts:** Latest: Tony still in surgery. No news = Good news.

~~~

It's Steve that can't let go, who can't leave well enough alone. Trust or not, Steve's need to protect has become compulsion, and Tony should have expected that.

Anticipated.

It's not constant, just a longing look, a touch held a bit too long, a question hastily redirected, until Tony is sick with frustration.

"Steve."

It's just them, Tony with his latest project pulled apart in holographic form, half-finished drink well in reach, Steve on the couch with his sketchpad.

It's been silent, neither music nor scrape of graphite over paper to fill it; Tony's felt the weight of Steve's gaze for far too long.

"I. I'm sorry, I can't. I have to ask."

"As long as you understand the answer's going to be no." Because it's all Tony can give.

~~~


	3. Chapter 3

There are debriefs to do. Reports to fill out. Medical exams that should be done - Clint's favoring his left shoulder, not enough for anyone else to notice, but--

Phil's not cruel enough to call them on any of it.

~~~

Despite the underlying tension -- perhaps because of it, because seriously, Steve wouldn't be so bullheaded _persistent_ if he didn't _care_ \-- Steve and Tony get along like a house on fire.

Tony's workshop opens to Steve -- most of the time -- without prompting or using his code. The pounding rock music turns down automatically, half the time changing to big band music, or something else Steve remembers. An expression of interest is enough for Tony to call Steve over to the worktable, patient explanations of engineering and execution on Tony's lips.

They talk about anything and everything, anything except the bond the rest of the team shares, anything except why Tony maintains his own isolation. Steve talks about the war, tells stories of the Howling Commandos and Bucky and Peggy Carter; Tony explains pop culture and paparazzi and gives Steve homework in the form of television and music and literature; they take trips to MOMA and the Smithsonian and the Central Park Zoo, the handful of diners Steve remembers that are somehow still operating.

If the question of Tony's privacy comes up every now and again, it's expected now, almost unsaid, just a half-hopeful "Tony?" on Steve's part and a look of concern.

Tony's answering shake of his head never changes; neither does Steve's regret and steel-spined acceptance.

~~~

Colonel James Rhodes arrives, jetlagged and steel-jawed and determined, a handful of disheartened pilots behind him. Rhodes is there for Tony; the pilots to pay their respects. Pepper takes that bull by the horn, gives the squad captain her business card and promises to give Tony their well-wishes one way or another.

She'll contact them later; whether it's for Tony's "Thank you, I survived" party, or for his funeral, remains unsaid.

They leave with a salute fit for the President and a more forceful aire about them, heading out to the volunteer teams. Where the rest of the Avengers would be, if only Tony weren't fighting for his life.

~~~

For all that Tony's place on the team, his growing friendships with five people who are bonded to each other, but not to him, grows stronger by the day, it's Pepper that makes it clear the rift isn't going away. Clear that that difference, that the pressure of maintaining the bond of team over a metaphysical bond is putting stress on Tony.

It's Pepper who has Tony's unqualified trust, who gets Tony to shed the masks he wears in public, even if it's in the Tower, even if it's just the team. Pepper who can curl up on the couch next to Tony, lean into his shoulder and press a soft kiss to cheek or brow, small leftover intimacies from a time when they were lovers.

It's an awful, unintended sort of revenge, having to watch Pepper move in and out of their home, their shared physical space, have access to Tony in ways they don't have, won't have. Can't have, because Tony refuses anything more.

There's a precarious balance in their relationships, one they don't realize exists until it starts to topple.

It's the way a quiet conversation goes silent when Bruce wanders into the kitchen at two in the morning, finding Tony staring into an empty mug, Pepper hovering with her lips tight in sympathy. In the soft "Are you sure you want to do this?" that ends more than one business meeting between them, Pepper's fingertips skimming Tony's collarbone only to be caught, knuckles kissed, answer unspoken.

It's in the shared meditation Thor startles them out of, the insistence that no, they aren't bonded, and yet Pepper has permission to go where the team can't, and it is salt in a wound that will not heal.

Clint leaves it alone; Natasha, the others, they know something is going on, Tony grows too quiet, too defensive.

And if Steve seeks to spend an afternoon in the workshop with his best friend, only to be rebuffed by a gently insistent JARVIS that Sir is unavailable, even when he's visible through the workshop windows deep in meditation for no reason at all--

\--no reason except that "Mental defenses such as Sir's do not maintain themselves" --

~~~

It's just the eight of them when the surgeon finally comes in, just the team and Phil and Pepper and Rhodes; Natasha wakes Bruce gently from his doze, whispering something before helping him sit up. They're all bone tired, eyes dry and red-rimmed.

Clint doesn't even let the doctor speak, just reads his body language -- he's trained in restraint, control, but not a spy. "You don't expect him to survive." Because the _I'm very sorry for your loss_ isn't there, but the news isn't _he's going to make it_ either.

"Tony has Colonel Rhodes and myself listed as next-of-kin," Pepper says, standing stiffly as she indicates Rhodey two chairs over. "But we're all Tony's family, and I'm sure all of us - Tony included - would appreciate all of us hearing how he's doing straight from his doctor, rather than having James and I have to repeat it. As much as we've had to step in and take care of Tony, we haven't been through medical school." Somehow she remains calm, keeps that threat non-threatening.

It gets her a short staring contest, and then a small nod. "Very well." He turns toward Clint and visibly braces himself. "As much as I hate to lay odds on anyone's survival, it is more than a little miraculous that Mr. Stark survived to get here, much less through surgery. You got him down, got him _here,_ you know what I'm talking about." He thinned his lips to white, shut his eyes for a moment. "Survival for Mr. Stark is not just a matter of replacing lost blood, stitching torn flesh, it's having to counteract the stress the arc reactor puts on him. He simply does not have the reserves to heal, not without more help than we are equipped to offer."

~~~

"I'm just saying, you already have the name recognition, you could have a scholarship for art students and if you actually show your work? It means something more than just _"Captain America supports the arts.""_ Tony gives him a small smirk, a raised eyebrow, and bends to take another bite of leftover Chinese.

"Don't tell me, you already looked into it." Steve eyes Tony across the counter warily before taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Okay, I won't," Tony agrees too easily, and Steve has to sigh. "What? That wasn't just a "Tony's at it again" sigh, you know I wouldn't actually set it up for you without your say-so, it's not like that. I just thought, forewarned, forearmed, and it'd be easier--"

"Tony."

Tony swallows another bite and looks up, puts his fork down. "This isn't about the art, is it?" he asks, and rubs the bridge of his nose at Steve's small headshake. "You know, I'd thought, I don't know. It's been months, I thought--"

"That I'd give up? You really think that--" Steve sighs again, deep and gusty, ribcage shrinking in on itself. "I didn't go AWOL on a _whim,_ Tony."

Tony takes a deep breath and lets it out again, slow. Steve doesn't talk about this, doesn't talk about rescuing Bucky, about _losing_ him, and if it's gotten that serious-- "I'm listening." And for once he is, the engineering distractions that are almost constantly running in the back of his mind silent; Steve looks like he's torn between crying and putting his fist through the counter.

Steve doesn't speak for several long, interminable minutes, a silence Tony doesn't feel the need to break. Then, with a regretful, bitter twist to his lips, Steve glances up briefly, then back to the half-eaten monster of a sandwich in front of him. "Bucky and I weren't--we weren't bonded, weren't compatible, but I--we knew each other's mindscapes like--" He gulps in air, swallows down the look of pain until his face is a blank mask again. "When he was taken prisoner, when Col. Phillips told me Bucky was lost, I knew--I knew it was a lie, that Bucky was still alive. Proximity makes a difference, but I knew him--I knew he was still _there--"_

Tony nods, a sense of sick recognition twisting his gut.

"I got him--got them out, we made it back to base, and..." Steve shakes his head. "I lost him off the side of a god damn train because I wasn't strong enough, wasn't _fast_ enough to catch him." He lifts a shaking hand as if to brush a wayward strand of hair out of his face, then drops it again. "I couldn't even check, I was hanging on by one hand and a toe-hold, and--"

"It wasn't your fault," Tony murmurs, even though it's not going to make a difference. "You couldn't have--"

"I don't know if he even _died_ after that, Tony, you don't know--there were things that we never talked about, that we kept out of the reports. Bucky--they didn't just torture him, they gave him--they made him like me. He could have--it's possible he survived the fall, the same way I survived seventy years in the ice, and I couldn't even stop to see if it was--I could have _told_ someone, told Phillips, or Howard, _someone--_ but there wasn't five minutes safe enough for me to even _look_ before I crashed that plane..."

Tony straightens, eyes wide in shock, and opens his mouth to make the expected offer, only to be waved off.

"I already looked, he's not--he's gone. It was the first thing I did once I--" Steve shakes his head. "That's not. That's not why I told you that, really. It's. The last person I called my best friend was lost to circumstance, and there's nothing I can do about it. But you--if you get taken, I can't even. I won't _know--"_ Steve makes a faint sound Tony will later refuse to say is a whimper. "The Commandos, we. We never _talked_ about why, but we all knew--familiarity was something we all agreed upon, because...we were the best, but we got separated, we got captured, damn it, Tony, sometimes we just plain got _lost,_ and we had to know when to keep looking, when--when it was a lost cause. Other than just bringing home a body."

Steve's sandwich is a complete loss, a mangled wreck after falling victim to Steve's need to hold onto something. Tony eyes it for a moment, his inability to meet Steve's gaze having nothing to do with Steve's unwillingness to even look at him, and pushes the styrofoam container of noodles and rice aside. "I'm not what you think I am," Tony says finally. Steve won't get it, _hasn't_ since the first time Tony tried, but he can't just come out and _say,_ that's been driven out of him. Still. He shuts his eyes, reaching inward for that place that burns, the hollow empty space that's left him feeling shredded until just--

It still hurts, still leaves him raw as an open wound, but. It's no longer devoid of possibility. There's a shadow of hope there, a glimmer--

"I'm really, really not."

Steve looks up at him finally, a bleakness in his eyes, grief borne of expectation. "I wouldn't be asking if you weren't an Avenger. If you--" Steve can't continue, and drops his gaze to the remains of his sandwich again, starting to pick bits of bread and lettuce from between his fingers.

"I can't give you the kind of familiarity you want."

There's a weighty silence, and then Steve stiffens in realization before he looks up. "You--"

"I'm not saying no, Steve, I'm saying _I can't give you what you want."_ The words are gentle, but Tony can't help the horrible, gnawing feeling that this will only make things worse. He doesn't say anything about calling Pepper, doesn't alert JARVIS to what he's about to do, because it's unnecessary. It's only been a matter of time and Steve's persuasiveness; Tony trying to do something he'd destroyed decades ago has always been inevitable.

"Even a little would help," and Steve sounds pathetically eager, grateful. He scrapes the rest of the mangled sandwich back onto the plate hastily, giving Tony little glances every few moments, before sliding off his stool and rounding the counter to clear his plate and wash his hands.

Tony waits, silent, watching as anxious hope and nerves turn Steve's breath into tiny hitches of broad shoulders. "Here, give me your hand," he says, stretching one of his own out and wiggling his fingers as Steve turns away from the sink.

Steve hesitates, stops a few feet away. "You--I can't tell you how much--thank you," he chokes out.

"Don't thank me, Steve, not. Not yet," Tony replies almost sadly. He wants to say more, wants--it's never mattered, not when it counts. Even if what Tony wants is in reach, years of orientation therapy left him unable to do anything about it.

"I know it's not what you want, Tony, that you'd let me--even if it's not the rest of the team, just." Steve closes his eyes, fists his hands at his sides before taking a deep breath and reaching out, just a little. "I have to."

"I know," Tony answers, taking Steve's hand, warm and damp, in his own. He stiffens, braces himself.

The world fades out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally forgot to add:
> 
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> 
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> 
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> 
> Happy bidding!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: The tags have changed to include some strong warnings. If you are unsure of whether or not you can handle what's in the warnings, please have someone you trust read it and advise.
> 
> WARNINGS: Mentions of major medical trauma. Aftermath of child abuse, torture, metaphysical disability.

"Aside from the massive blood loss, internal bleeding and puncture wounds from the spear, for lack of a better term, Mr. Stark has two broken and four cracked ribs, fractures in his left collar bone, pelvis, and right tibia and fibula, and a torn left rotator cuff. We had to remove part of his small intestine since it was too badly damaged to repair. He's currently on nutritional support and a broad-spectrum antibiotic as a precaution, and we're doing full blood panels on an hourly basis. We've had fragments of the spear sent out to the hospital lab and those at St. Louis and Washington Universities, since we don't know what to expect in terms of alien contaminants. Surgery was touch and go," and they all know what that means, that he flatlined at least once, "and he's currently breathing only with assistance." He pauses for a moment before continuing, almost apologetically, "This hospital has made Mr. Stark's survival its top priority, but given his injuries and the circumstances, there's not much more we can do except hope for a miracle. I'm very sorry."

~~~

There's no familiar shiver of shield-over-shield, no sudden realignment of mindscapes; Steve has a bare moment to regret, to realize he'd more than half _expected_ to feel the last of them slot into place, before he realizes why it can't, why it _won't_ happen that way.

Tony isn't a Dom.

There's no open space, not like Natasha's Russian forest, or sky-bridges of heavy limbs overhead that was Clint's. No Ebbett's field, ancient white-washed bleachers that came from Steve's own mindscape, or Bruce's swingset in right field, or Thor's gold-and-glass mountains looming in the distance...

Steve would think he's back on the helicarrier, in one of the hangar bays, but those aren't Quinjets. Those are--

Those are X-wing fighters right out of Star Wars. And racks of single-person fighters from Babylon 5. And a--is that a _teltac?_

Something nudges at his leg, and Steve grabs for the railing--

\--yes, he _is_ standing on a catwalk and it's a long way down--

\--and looks down at the--

Not Dummy.

The droid - Steve can't stop himself from calling it a droid, not here _in a hangar bay straight out of Star Wars_ \-- is smaller, sleeker than Dummy, sort of what Dummy might have been if Tony had been older and sober at the time. It's still an arm on treads, several smaller limbs folded up near what he can only call its elbow, familiar camera-eye and claw.

"Where's Tony?" Steve finds himself asking, even though this is _all_ Tony.

The droid whirs, spins its claw at him and makes a little _follow_ gesture with some kind of tool on a spindly limb it immediately folds away again.

Steve spares one last moment to gaze down at the hangar, fighters and droids swarming around them, watches as a pair of X-wings launches into the purple-black of space; then he turns and follows as the droid leads him through a door he hadn't noticed.

~~~

"Asgard will not stand for this," Thor booms out, torn between anger and disappointment. "I must return; my lady mother must hear of this. The Man of Iron has earned no less regard in my court than Son of Coul."

"Wait, Thor, please. Not yet," Phil asks. It was Asgardian magic, a potion from Queen Frigga herself that had saved him from Loki's spear; no doubt it would do the same for Tony, now, but they were not yet out of options.

~~~

Steve follows through a twisting maze of hallways and corridors, across catwalks and, incongruously, up scaffoldings that a droid of Dummy's type shouldn't be able to climb, but this is Tony's mindscape.

_"That's one protection I don't need, Cap."_

Tony had been right; his mind is layer upon layer of defenses, fighters, droids, a labyrinth of pathways that make no logical sense and threaten to give Steve a headache trying to remember. He's sure there's other things, traps, tripwires, and there's no way through or around, no panels to disarm, no access.

Steve isn't sure Tony would _notice_ an attack on this plane.

Maybe that's the point.

And yet...

There's a droid in front of him, trundling along.

~~~

"That was _with_ the armor?" Rhodey asks. It's offensive to think that the armor had left him that vulnerable. _Tony's_ armor, Iron Man, which, Rhodey will admit even if only in the sanctity of his own mind, is better than War Machine in some things, including this. War Machine is meant for war. Iron Man...is for other things, better things.

"I'm quite certain you know more than I about the armor's capabilities, but it's probably geared more towards withstanding military armaments than being used as a chewtoy."

~~~

The droid stops in a long swathe of light, its shadow stretching across the floor, and turns to look at him. Steve has trouble making out its features, the camera eye in the center of its claw, the slender limbs blurring into nothing from being silouhetted through the door behind it.

"Tony's in there?"

The droid whirs at him, the claw rotating in its socket; it's eerily similar to the sound Dummy makes when he's happy, and Steve can't help take comfort from it.

"Thanks." Steve watches as it turns back to the door and pauses, then back towards him, almost reluctant, and slowly trundles back the way they'd come. The base nudges Steve's leg on its way past. "I'll be careful," he adds, and gets another, more hesitant whir, and then it's just him and the door.

~~~

"You said _more help than you are equipped to offer._ What did you mean by that?" Clint asks, holding a sense of impending grief at bay.

~~~

Tony isn't the first sub Steve's had metaphysical access to; there were a few among the Commandos, more in the USO. Most of them had been - not simple, but uncomplicated. Bunkers and bomb shelters for the soldiers who'd grown up in the shadows of World War I. Farmhouses, brownstones, a charming two story walk-up in one case, white picket fences and kitchen gardens full of herbs.

Tony--

Steve can't help but gape at the open expanse of atrium, unable to stop thoughts of Biosphere-2, of _The Secret Garden_ meets _The Prince of Egypt._ There is stone under his feet, walkways and courtyards and sculpture, and the ceiling overhead is so far away that a faint watery sun shines white-gold through misty clouds, leaving everything indirectly lit.

It's a confusing contradiction, and then the smell hits him.

Dust of ages and rotting vegetation, and Steve's feet are slow to move him forward, past beds that have become little more than compost heaps, thorny vines dry and crumbling, disintegrating at a touch. Skree crunches underfoot, and he looks down to see pavement cracked as if by a jackhammer. A fountain stands dry and empty, slime mold crawling over the edges and up the center spout.

The devastation goes on as far as Steve can see, as long as Steve's feet carry him forward, searching for signs of Tony's inner self, and now he knows -- he thinks he knows -- why his friend has been so reticent, so avoidant of their intrusion.

This isn't three months in Afghanistan.

Three months in Afghanistan wouldn't have touched this, wouldn't have gotten past Tony's outermost defenses.

Steve passes by a section walled off by skeletal hedges, a few blackened leaves clinging to otherwise bare branches; there's as much dead brush piled on the ground beneath as still standing. Inside the enclosure, there's a whiteboard, inked equations smeared and faded, the table in front of it listing drunkenly on three legs.

"Tony, what did this to you?" Steve whispers, pain closing his throat even here, knowing that whatever self-image Tony has is as damaged as the landscape created to house it.

This isn't three months in Afghanistan. It's not three months of drowning and starvation and vivisection.

This is years, perhaps over a decade of metaphysical torture - either someone had done this to Tony before he'd been able to defend himself, before he'd hit puberty...

...or Tony had done this to himself.

The statue Steve's passing might be a sphinx. It might be a lion the size of an elephant. He can't tell, because most of the head is in pieces around the front legs, and there's a huge crack running from shoulder to hip. He reaches out to run sympathetic fingers over the rough surface, half pivoting around the far side, and comes face to face with...

"Tony?" Steve's hand hangs in the air, useless, fingers twitching for a moment before he can think to lower his arm, to appear as non-threatening as he possibly can. And then...

...and then he goes crashing to his knees, unable to stop himself.

The figure huddling against the statue is unmistakably a child, flesh and metal, and Steve can't help but remember the scene in _The Empire Strikes Back,_ remember Luke's prosthetic hand and the exposed wires and pistons, only Tony's--

\--Tony's not _repaired,_ not _rebuilt_ but worn and wrecked, pieces of flesh torn away to expose snarled wiring, corroded gears. 

He is, as Clint would say, a steampunk cyborg, an illogical mess of mechanical bits underneath skin more scarred than not, at least where it hasn't been lost altogether. The arc reactor is there, shining blue-white familiarity like a beacon amid a mess of silver-white scar tissue and greening copper. His eyes are dark lenses, like Dummy's; one side of his jaw shows blackened iron under a crust of old blood. A fan of copper pistons shines dully through the back of a hand, shreds of skin hanging from knuckles pressed between cheek and stone. 

Steve tries to comprehend, to take it all in, but all his mind will register are details. 

"Who did this to you?" Steve's voice is hoarse, raw with emotion, and he reaches out, slow, fingers twitching hesitantly.

Tony just cringes away from him, mouth working, but the only sound a hiss, a click, air through holes that shouldn't be.

_Tony can't talk._

Steve swallows a curse, the gut-punch realization that someone had done this, _someone_ had hurt Tony badly enough that his inner self had been forcibly muted. Even Clint could talk. Even _Natasha,_ odd as it was to see a wooden music box ballerina speak.

Steve wants to say _"I want to destroy whoever did this to you,"_ but it doesn't come, buried by the thought _"I would never hurt you;"_ he's still reaching out, trying to comfort, fingers just close enough to brush over a trembling cheekbone.

That thought's a lie, and Steve realizes too late. Stone cracks like gunshots, pieces of the half-shattered statute above him raining down; there's a roar of wind through leaves, thorns tearing into his back, even as he feels his own mindscape shift.

The fledgeling bond trying to form between them is an absolute failure, shredded and fading and leaving Steve lost, the pain of it washing over him, and Steve does the only thing he can, the only thing he can _think_ of.

~~~

"Barnes-Jewish offers some of the best physical and mental health care in the country, but there is little anyone can do, medically speaking, for strangers on a metaphysical level," he starts.

"Colonel Rhodes and I both have unrestricted metaphysical access. If there's anything we can do--we are at his disposal." Pepper smooths one hand over her skirt to straighten it.

"Are either of you compatible with him? Because anything less than a full bond isn't going to do Mr. Stark any good."

~~~

It seems odd that the kitchen hasn't changed, is still the same around them when everything else has turned upside down.

Steve's hand is going numb, tingling from Tony's grip on his wrist, nails digging into pressure points. Tony's eyes are wide, dark and wearing every mask he can bring to bear, hiding the pain, the damage done to him so long ago, right this minute, empty pits in a face gone white with strain.

"Tony?" Steve swallows against the wash of fiery agony, icy chill, the metaphysical backlash that analgesics won't touch, the nausea roiling in his gut. The others will be here soon; he can hear the footsteps, feel the shock through the half-torn bonds he shares with the rest of the team.

"I will always be your friend," Tony says, eerily calm after the clusterfuck that Steve knows he'd been pushed into. "I will _always_ be your friend. And your teammate." His face twists then, a split-second expression Steve remembers, having seen it time and again but never knew what it was. "I will always be your friend. Dear old Dad made certain of that." Tony's gaze flickers to the side, behind Steve, and Steve can feel more eyes on them. Tony exhales hard through his nose, and drops Steve's wrist, and walks out, a quiet "Take care of him" directed to whoever's standing there.

Steve can say nothing past his shock, past the guilt and pain and horror.

_Howard had done that. Howard had--_

_Tony's their sub,_ theirs, _and he can't even--_

_Tony's their sub, and he can't bond, and they'd been rubbing his nose in it--_

Steve's back hits the edge of the counter, and he slides to the floor before Thor and Natasha can catch him.


	5. Chapter 5

"Even with a bond there's no guarantees. Metaphysical support, even between bondmates, is like donating a pint of blood for every ounce received."

Pepper closes her eyes, gritting her teeth against a strange sense of guilt. "No. No, we aren't." And perhaps for the first time, she truly regrets that, despite the simple fact that Tony trusts her, trusts _them_ in part because they _aren't,_ they _can't_ bond with him.

"Perhaps I should be asking if Mr. Stark has a bondmate. His medical records list neither his dynamic nor bond status."

"That would depend on your definition of bondmate, Doctor."

The doctor gives Phil an irritated look. "If--"

"No guarantees with _a_ bond." Clint's voice is rough, raspy with fatigue and unshed tears. "What about more than one?"

~~~

"Ms. Potts, you are needed in Sir's workshop immediatly."

Pepper touches her Bluetooth reflexively. "Is this an actual emergency or--"

JARVIS doesn't let her continue. "Whether or not I call medical assistance for Sir depends entirely on the care he receives in the next few minutes."

"If it's that bad, we're going to need--"

"I have already requested Col. Rhodes' immediate leave. Would you care for me to handle any other administrative tasks?"

"Please," Pepper says, ignoring the tasks left unfinished on her desk, paperwork left unsigned. "Four days' cancellation for both Tony and myself, rolling forward as necessary." The orders continue as first her office, then the penthouse elevator doors close behind her.

~~~

"I am going to assume that you aren't asking about the medical implications of a rare bond configuration for purely hypothetical reasons," the surgeon asks after a weighty pause.

"No, Doctor--"

"Gillam. My apologies."

Steve waved that off as a waste of time. "Safe assumption."

"Then why doesn't Mr. Stark have a bond - or rather, more than one? One would give him a chance. Two--"

"The six of us are bonded Dominants, Dr. Gillam," Natasha says flatly. One corner of her mouth twitches, a minute flinch, or perhaps an acknowledgement as Bruce tightens his grip on her thigh. 

Green flushes Bruce's skin, swells his muscles, before subsiding again.

"And Mr. Stark would be your sub. _Unbonded._ Why?"

~~~

Pepper finds Tony collapsed behind the couch, arms wrapped around a trash can; she wrinkles her nose at the stench of stomach acid. "Oh, Tony." 

Tony's entirely unresponsive; if not for his deathgrip on the bin and the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders - and the simple fact that Pepper knows he's sinking deeper into metaphysical shock - Pepper might think he were dead.

"I could kill him for doing this to you." One hand reaches out as she toes off her heels, stroking first Dummy, then Butterfingers, the 'bots hovering anxiously over their creator.

"Back up, guys, I need some space here." She pulls an afghan off the couch to a soundtrack of beeps and whistles, peels off her blouse to throw it carelessly over the arm only to have Dummy steal it. It will undoubtedly be ruined in Dummy's attempt to hang it up, but Pepper has other things to worry about.

Clothes can be replaced.

"Come here, Tony," she murmurs, settling on the blanket, thankful he'd had the presence of mind to strip his usual t-shirt. "Dummy, I need your--Careful, there, I can't--"

"I have them, Ms. Potts," JARVIS says gently, and for all of Dummy's and Butterfinger's (and You's for that matter) stubborn independence, for all of Tony's insistence on their being granted the freedom to grow and learn and make mistakes on their own, Pepper knows that all four of them love Tony enough to forfeit their own autonomy.

To allow JARVIS access, control to maneuver Tony into Pepper's lap, because one touch of skin to skin will make Tony drag Pepper into his mindscape in his distress.

~~~

"Because the one and only time he allowed any of us access, the bond that tried to form nearly killed him." Steve couldn't, wouldn't meet Dr. Gillam's eyes, shifted his weight guiltily under the grip of Thor's hand on his shoulder.

"Tony--" Pepper starts, stops as Dr. Gillam's face goes white.

"Orientation therapy?" he asks, but it's not a question, and he doesn't wait for confirmation before excusing himself and leaving them alone again.

~~~

Breathing is not a requirement on the metaphysical plane. Still, it's instinct, and the stench of smoke and ozone greet Pepper before her eyes can focus on the chaos. She drops to her knees, futile since she knows she's on a catwalk, and drags her shirt up over her mouth and nose.

A cacophony of beeps and squeals and other assorted sounds meet her ears; she concentrates, tries to suppress the coughing, tells herself she doesn't need to, counts the droids by sound since sight is complicated by thick, billowing clouds of black smoke. There are at least a dozen droids left active, all of them distressed to the point of panic, but still functional.

A good thing, since she can't do the heavy lifting; Tony will have to wait for Rhodey to get there.

Still, it's bad. Worse than she'd imagined, better than she'd feared. Most of Tony's fleet is little more than twisted wreckage, unidentifiable heaps of scorched metal.

"I'm here, Tony. I could kill Steve for this, but. I'm here. Let me help you," Pepper says, voice not quite a whisper. Her free hand presses flat to the wall behind her, and she shoves her own mental shields outward, knowing that as far as protection goes, it's a leaky faucet compared to Niagara Falls.

But it's what she has, all she can offer until she can make her way to the inner courtyard and start to fix this.

~~~

The tension somehow ratchets higher at Dr. Gillam's abrupt departure, drawing curses from Steve and Clint and Thor, a further greening of Bruce's skin.

"I wish--" Steve says, not looking at anyone.

"You wish?" Phil looks up from the clipboard in his lap.

"I wish I'd had the chance to say--tell him--I don't." It's not often Captain America is at a loss for words.

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Pepper stiffens and narrows her eyes. She should have asked, but hasn't wanted to--

"Tony's comm went out shortly after he and Thor downed that--thing." Steve shrugs, still not looking at anyone. "Before that--"

"It was all combat and--" Natasha picks up the narrative when Steve fails, only to hunch her own shoulders.

 _Begging for help,_ Pepper fills in silently. "Tony--did he say anything before he went silent? Anything that didn't make sense?"

That makes everyone focus, concentrate on remembering, gets looks of confusion and uncertain denial.

"He said--he said something about the sword of Damocles, but it made sense in context." Natasha frowns. "I didn't think anything of it at the time."

"Sword of--" Pepper feels her eyes go wide, a moment of shocked dizziness before anger and guilt slam into her with equal force; she should have asked, should have _known,_ it's not like she doesn't have access to JARVIS. "Tony, damn it, why didn't you--"

"That--wasn't the suit?" Steve actually sounds _hopeful,_ picks up on the implications--

Pepper's already on her feet, phone in hand, JARVIS on the other end. "No, that wasn't the suit. JARVIS, I need the closest--bathroom, office, hell, closet--" and leaves behind her -- their -- family of frantic-worried and grief-stricken heroes.

~~~

What's just happened is painfully obvious, in both the literal and metaphysical sense. Clint paces himself, doesn't rush, doesn't try and assuage purely metaphysical pain on his way to the communal level. He can sense Steve in distress, the others gathering, the shock and horror and agony that is the damaged bond trying to right itself in the back of his head.

"--not his fault, not--" Steve stops and gulps in air, bangs the back of his head against the cabinets in protest.

"You're right, it's not Tony's fault," Clint says, carefully neutral. He's instantly the focus of attention, despite Steve and Natasha both showing an almost pornographic amount of skin.

Skin-to-skin contact is about the only thing any of them can do to lessen the pain, and Natasha's never hesitated to cut to the chase.

"Tony just left him here--"

 _"Tony,"_ Clint starts, cutting off the blame game, "is a sub. He's _our_ sub, and if you hadn't figured that out by now--" He doesn't bother finishing. 

He _does,_ however, maintain eye contact as he turns his attention elsewhere. "JARVIS? I know more attention from a prospective bondmate isn't actually welcome right now, but if Tony needs help--" and lets the offer hang.

"Thank you for the offer, but Ms. Potts is with Sir." The normally dry, British humor is gone, replaced by a sense of sincere approval and a decided lack of acknowledgement for the rest of the team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a) late (at least to me) and b) shorter than I'd like because I spent several days dithering and attempting to write a World Of article for this story.
> 
> It is still in progress, though I consider it to be something of a failure.
> 
> ETA: 'It' is in reference to the World Of article, not the story. The story is not a failure. Even if it were, all your lovely comments would make me change my mind about that!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get out the tissues.
> 
> Seriously.

"Talk to me, JARVIS," Pepper says, voice little more than a rough hiss. There's a door between herself and the hall, the chaos of the rest of the hospital; a door and a pair of MPs guarding the women's restroom. "He used--" she has to stop and gulp in air, shaking already, but there's no one here to see. "Sword of, of..."

"Ms. Potts."

Her fingers curl around her phone until the edges are biting into her skin. "I'm here, JARVIS."

"Are you certain you wish to listen?"

In almost any other circumstance, she'd wonder at the empathy obvious in his voice, how human he sounds, but. "Play, JARVIS."

"Of course, ma'am."

There's a quiet click, and then a painful rasp of breath, a heavy swallow, the whine and grind of damaged armor shifting. And Tony's voice.

"Hey, Pepper." It's lighthearted, an emotional lie, and she can hear the struggle, the tremor in her own name.

"Tony." She backs herself up against the wall, slides down it as her knees refuse to hold her up anymore. Tony's silent now, and she can hear Steve in the background shouting orders, Thor's bellow of anguished rage, endearments and _"stay with me, stay with us"_ and--

"Don't think--" another swallow, background noise vanishing again as JARVIS filters it out. "Don't think I'm getting out of this one, Pepper. Sorry," and he laughs.

It ends agonizingly fast in a whine of pain, and Pepper knows why, knows the spear that pinned him had gone right through his abdomen, armor front and back.

"Need you to know--" and he pauses to gasp, breathe through the pain, this pain she can't imagine, "love you, Pep, so much. Never tell you that enough, not, not enough, if things were different--"

"You wouldn't be _Tony,"_ Pepper whispers, unable to see past a blur, and hearing more than she ever wanted.

"Thor's got it down," Tony says, and this time he's not hiding the pain, he's not even _trying,_ and Pepper chokes on a sob. "Chasing it east so it--JARVIS, lock on and empty the armory, not like--"

She can hear him swallow down the _"I'll need it"_ through her own tears.

"Love you so much, Pep, I know you'll do great things with...everything." Words are coming in a rush now. "I know you'll take care of Rhodey and JARVIS and the 'bots, made sure they'd be yours and not, not--"

She knows, knows because they did this together, made sure the best of Tony's creations wouldn't, _couldn't,_ be turned to more sinister ends.

"Should see this," Tony says, and it's all pain and awe in his voice. "Biggest lightning storm...you'll see it on tv, but not the same, Pep, not the..." Tony pauses to swallow, to breathe, and Pepper whispers his name, heartbroken. "Don't have--have to. Pep, I have to--want to say more, but, the rest are for if I don't--not giving up, just. Tell the others--"

Pepper curls in on herself, chest tight with grief.

"Tell the others. If, if they want to try, if they're--still willing to." He swallows again, and Pepper can hear the want that has never _not_ been there, the ache of being denied what he's wanted most. "They won't get a better shot at this. I'll. I'm doing. What I can. On my end of things. I. Pep. Isn't the movies. Not romance and glory, just. Just blood and pain and. Luck ran out, I think. But I--it's a risk. I can't ask, can't--"

She knows he wants to beg for a second chance, any chance at all. Knows he won't.

"Love you, Pep, can't. Sorry, I. Love you. JARVIS--"

The recording cuts off.


	7. Chapter 7

There are a dozen ways through the labyrinth that is Tony's outer defenses, a dozen and a dozen more open to Pepper Potts; she knows them all, knows how they shift and change to mirror Tony's mood, his needs and wants.

All of them are failures now.

Some of them have collapsed in on themselves, piles of smoking rubble, or melted slag. Junctions are unfamiliar, pathways leading to sudden dropoffs or not there at all.

It drives her near to tears, trying one after another, not wanting to intrude, not wanting to contribute to the damage, until she has to stop, stop and rest a hand against a wall that's gone a dull grey, that's lost its metallic shine.

"Tony," she whispers, throat closing even here. "You need me, and I'm here, but I can't get to you, I can't--"

It's not supposed to be like this. Tony's never kept her out, never--

She's not his Dominant. Not compatible. And Steve--

The paths closed to her make sense, symptomatic of a bond having been established, but Pepper's stronger than that.

Tony made her stronger than that.

_"I trust you, Pep," he had said once upon a time, over too-rich food and fancy tableware. "I trust you in ways I don't trust myself."_

She hadn't wanted it then, the ability to bend meta-reality to her will, had never used it; she needs it now, and presses hands flat to the wall.

"Take me to him. This isn't a wall. _This will not stop me,"_ she grinds out through gritted teeth, and the surface ripples and pulls her in.

~~~

"He broke the bond," Natasha says, barely audible over the sound of Steve's panting breath.

"Nat, I love you, you're one of the best things that ever happened to me. But if it'd been you looking down that sniper's scope, I'd have been dead before I hit the ground."

"Been." Steve stops, swallows, starts again. "Trying to tell them, wasn't--"

"We felt the bond, Captain, I do not understand. I have not heard of such a thing. Bonds on Asgard simply do not destroy themselves--"

"Wasn't him," Steve hissed, tightening his hold on Natasha until she makes a small sound of pain.

"You really think Tony would break a bond with us." Clint tries to stay neutral, tries and fails, and feels their attention turn back to him, attention and growing anger.

"You knew? Why didn't - you could have said something." Bruce looks up from where he's kneeling next to Steve, but doesn't otherwise move.

 _'This isn't going to end well,'_ Clint thinks. But he's never backed down from a fight before, and he's not about to start now. "It's not my story to tell."

 _"He_ could have said something," Natasha snaps.

"He was scared," Steve whispers into Natasha's hair.

"He had reason, I'd say," and still there's that _hurt,_ the knowledge that they won't, they can't have Tony the way they want, the way they were meant.

"Why did he not say something? If he is truly ours--"

"That's not in question," Bruce murmurs.

"We asked - we _offered -_ Why did he not speak?"

"He's a textbook narcissist, he shouldn't have any trouble with that--"

"He plays a textbook narcissist because he got it out of a _fucking textbook,_ Nat." Clint watches as she stiffens, as Steve's hands clutch at her, fingers twitching convulsively. There will be bruises there later, there's no avoiding it. Clint's borne his fair share of supersoldier (and Asgardian) fingerprints, but he has no complaints about either. This--this is different. "Tony's spent his entire life cultivating a persona designed to keep people from wanting to get close."

"Does he truly not want companionship then?"

"Only on his terms, Thor, on terms he can live with, because anything else..." Clint trails off, cuts his gaze across and down to stare at the huddle of Steve and Natasha and Bruce pointedly.

"Yet he says nothing, nothing that would explain this."

"I'm not having this conversation--I'm not," he cuts in before they can interrupt. "It's not going to help right now. I don't have permission, I don't know details, and everything I _do_ know is guesswork." He watches as Steve tries to manage his breathing, tries to regain some control. 

"He was tortured." Steve lifts his head enough to meet Clint's gaze, barely; his voice is raw with pain, with grief and self-doubt and a new-found ability to hate. "Howard tortured him. For a long, long time. Howard _broke_ him."


	8. Chapter 8

Pepper leaves a vaccuum behind her; Rhodey feels like she'd stolen all the air in the moments since the door shut.

The silence that follows is no better, weighted and oppressive, waiting for someone to break it.

 _Might as well be me,_ he thinks as he shoves himself to his feet impatiently. "Sword of Damocles, Tony? Really?" he mutters under his breath.

There's a hand on his arm, insistent, and he reacts on instinct before he realizes it's not an attack.

Steve doesn't fight his hold, just meets his eyes even as he waves the others off. "You know what he meant by that." There's no apology in his voice for surprising Rhodey, and he won't be getting one for getting pinned up against the wall, either, chairs knocked out of the way. "Sword of Damocles."

"Tony's the sword of Damocles," Rhodey says before letting Steve go, stepping back and leveraging a tipped chair upright with one foot.

"Hanging by a thread." Bruce's voice is choked off, shocked, and there's another ripple of green that settles under Natasha's hands. "His life--he knew he was dying."

"Tony plans for everything he can think of, and if he doesn't expect to survive - if he's hanging by a thread - he needed to be able to--"

"Leave messages," Natasha finishes softly, almost whispering into Bruce's curls, when Rhodey can't finish. "JARVIS turned off his comm so he could leave messages."

"Yeah." Rhodey sighs, refusing to meet anyone's gaze as he puts the last of the chairs back in place.

"Could he hear us?" Steve asks, hopeful and plaintive.

"Everyone on that frequency could hear you." Rhodey can't keep the sarcasm, the amusement out of his tone, and he wants nothing more than to hit something (hit Steve), and he can't.

"Does the sword of Damocles protocol leave incoming communication lines open?" Phil keeps it matter-of-fact, bland and nonthreatening.

Rhodey doesn't answer, just grinds his teeth, cheek muscle twitching. They don't know - none of them realize, none of them - in one aspect at least, it's not going to matter whether or not Tony lives.

Live or die, Rhodey - and Pepper, and Rhodey's only stayed this long to stall for privacy, to keep the team from doing something _stupid_ \- is going to lose his best friend.

"Yes," he finally gets out, reluctantly. "He heard you."

~~~

Tony's mindscape is all but unrecognizable, the image burnt into Pepper's memory through a thick curtain of dust. The air here is choked with it, fresh-turned earth and old dust and ozone, fouled water and rot.

There've been federal disaster areas with less damage. Pepper's seen them, walked the ruins and offered succor to survivors.

 _Don't breathe,_ she tells herself, and sets herself to picking her way down the narrow, crumbling ledges of limestone, through what had become narrow arroyos and canyons, sheer cliffs on one side but angling steeply. _Plate techtonics at work,_ she can't help but think.

She can barely recognize the remnants of landscaping, pieces of statuary and fountains and flowerbeds long gone bare of greenery, and none of it tells her how to find Tony.

~~~

"JARVIS."

"Yes, Miss Potts?"

"Is. There anything else?" Pepper has to ask, has to, even though-- 

She cuts that that thought off viciously.

"Not that I am currently capable of offering," JARVIS answers, gentle, and it is answer enough to an unspoken thought.

Pepper lets the darkness behind her eyelids close in on her, help steady her breathing, before answering with a soft _"Thank you, JARVIS, that will be all."_

And tries not to think how much it sounds like _good-bye._

~~~

Fatigue means nothing here; Pepper's feet move almost without thought, without direction, all of her attention on trying to figure out how to find Tony. The landscape here feels desolate, abandoned, but also waiting, and she feels a frisson of awareness shiver along nerves scraped raw with fear.

"Take me to him," she whispers, "he needs me."

The response isn't immediate, or even noticeable, but the earthen wall she's using for balance crumbles under her hand; the rough ground smooths, shifts from soil to stone to clay and back. Even the quality of light changes, and Pepper has to look up as shadows sweep across her.

Somehow a huge swathe of space has gone dark.

Night doesn't come to this place; Tony has no need for darkness, not after Afghanistan. If it weren't for his arc reactor, Pepper knows he'd have installed nightlights everywhere. But this space--

\--this space sees no sunlight, and Pepper's heart crawls up her throat at the implications even as she crosses back over, weak warmth enveloping her again.

~~~

The MPs are waiting outside to escort Pepper back to the waiting room, silent and attentive as they follow down the hall; they pay no attention as she faces the closed door, one hand poised to grasp the handle, then pulls back almost to her chest.

Pepper presses fingertips gently to her breastbone, swallowing and closing her eyes; once she crosses the threshold, what little peace she's had will be gone.

"No time to waste, is there, JARVIS?" she asks, but there's no answer, and the door gives way on silent hinges.

"--not about us, Steve, it's not about us!" Clint hissed. "It's about _him,_ and what's going to save him, and us fighting over trying to form a bond that almost killed him when you couldn't take no for an answer isn't going to help."

"There's only so much you can--"

"What's going on here?" Pepper asks, even though it's obvious. It's the same tone she uses with Tony, the same implacable expression and steel will that's outmaneuvered the Director.

Clint, at least, looks relieved to see her. "The only thing that could save him is the bond we can't make, except--" He pauses, paling, and turns away before finishing. "All five of us would put too much strain on him, and I'm going first."

"I've been trying to tell them nobody's doing anything without your approval." Rhodey sighs and rolls his eyes, sharing a glance of commiseration with Pepper that does nothing to lower the tension level in the room.

"Phil?"

Phil has his own version of that unflappableness. "Tony's made it plain who's in charge, metaphysically speaking, when he's unable to answer for himself." His eyebrows twitch as he glances up from the clipboarded stack of forms in his lap. "Sword of Damocles?"

Pepper takes a moment to breathe. "Clint."

Clint straightens.

"How would you handle it?"

Clint shrugs. "Physical contact, go in, try and establish the bond and hope like hell Tony does't attack me. Let it settle, have Natasha go once it's stable. Then Steve, and Thor, and Bruce, because Hulk is not going to wait for us to say go."

"And if Tony's defenses--"

"I trust him not to. But even if he did it's a risk I'm willing to take." The rest of the team nods in agreement.

Pepper's careful not to break eye contact even to glance at anyone else. "It's going to hurt." Because it is. It's going to hurt like hell - both from Tony's pain bleeding over the bond, subconsciously scrabbling for whatever strength he can, and Clint's bond with the rest of the team pulling itself apart because Tony's not strong enough to assimilate all of them.

"Most things in life worth having do." Clint stares back, but Pepper can see white knuckles curled on the back of the chair next to him. "I'm the best shot Tony has, and you know it, Pepper. Don't do this--"

But Pepper's already moving, already talking over him. "Go. We'll do it your way. Rhodey--go with him, let the doctors know." Her voice almost -- almost -- shakes, almost breaks with the knowledge of loss, the one she won't acknowledge--

Clint's on his feet, uncoiling from his seat and hopping over Natasha and Bruce with the negligent grace of a great cat; he pauses at Pepper's shoulder, feeling the gazes of the rest of his team on his back. "You still haven't told us anything about what he said."

Pepper doesn't turn to look at him so much as cant her head slightly; her eyes shutter, as if by blocking out the light she can keep Tony's secrets to herself. "You - all of you - are worth more to him than his own life, but you know that."

Steve makes a small sound of disgusted agreement; there've been many, many arguments about Tony's supposed recklessness in the field, his readiness to intercept blows meant for others. Others better able to withstand such things.

"The Man of Iron would not put us at risk by asking such of us." The tendons in Thor's neck stand out, lines of bitterness and regret. "Our support need not be asked, but be freely offered. It only remains for him to accept, and he has not strength left to fight us on this."

"No." Pepper breathes it out on a sigh, a bare whisper of sound. "No, Thor, he doesn't. That's why--that's why he called himself the sword of Damocles. He spent what little he had left making it _safe."_ She presses her lips thin, white for a moment. "As safe as he could, under the circumstances."

Clint gives a little nod. "I'll be careful," he says, and Rhodey follows him out the door like a too-attentive shadow.

~~~

It's the sound that gives Tony away, a quiet, plaintive squeaking that cuts through the oppressive silence.

The dead silence.

He's all but hidden in a tiny pocket valley - or what's a tiny pocket valley _now_ rather than the shadow of what had been a rather impressive statue. The great stone feline's haunches are still there, the rest turned to rubble scattered across the shattered ground.

Some of it still covers Tony's shoulder, and it's his struggles to clear it, weak and broken as he is, that has his joints squeaking in protest.

"Tony, it's me, it's Pepper." She keeps her voice low, soothing, and doesn't let his flinch and the accompanying mechanical cacophony show.

He stills, waiting, waiting, stump of a right leg twitching at the knee joint as if pointing to the rusted gears and pistons scattered among the rocks. One dark optic watches her as she carefully levers herself down the slope, gathering bits and pieces as she approaches; the other shows a crazed spiderweb of fine cracks, and the flesh below, what flesh there is, is swollen and blistered an angry red.

"I'm here, Tony. Let me clear that for you."

Tony just watches, still and silent, as she frees him from the rubble, piling bits and pieces as she goes to be sorted and replaced and repaired as best she can.

Salty drops fall, dripping over greening copper, blackened iron, torn flesh; streaks of gleaming metal and new skin trail behind.


End file.
